ME AMONG THE FLOWERS, ME AS IN AMONG THE FLOWERS
(Two captions Tom’s mother put on photos of herself)
Spotted, dotted, spring, sun, sun's rays down through the already summer canopy. The ground tells of a recent soaking rain, and the creek speaks of comfort down between the rocks and hills.
My mother loved white rocks and I still pick them up, their bright beauty and structure a constant reminder of how she made all who crossed her path feel. My mother long gone, but the rocks and stones ageless, intertwine and fill with the stories of all lives that encounter them. Metallic pinwheels spin in the gardens of today's gentle breeze as the healthy growth of this year’s harvest sprouts into the new day, in the new world above the ground. Seeds of the life of all types drift on the air, like us, looking for that special spot to call home and put down roots.
Butterflies flutter by within the shady shadow of today's life. Solomon's seal berries appear out at the end of the large leafy stem and look like they spent the winter in the paint booth of a body shop, white lustrous pearly with dots of red.
The hustling bustling importance of everyday’s tasks drift on the waters of the creek on its journey to the sea. I bid them adieu, never to return, and let all others in their absence flow through likewise, never taking anything too seriously. Dark clouds creep up at the edges of the distant file and march upward filled with the sounds of the thunder bangs and slowly block out only the bright portions of this lovely day.
The crack of dawn appeared light gray in the shape of a lightning bolt pushing through the dark grayish black foreground. It appeared that here below the cloud cover today's sun's rays would be filtered, muted by the thick blanket if not at all eliminated.
—
Hard to believe that right here in the 21st century at certain places in our world, so many are still oppressed of opinion of freedom. That simple right of every free thinker, a chance to speak out your opinion to vote for who you really feel fits the way of life you desire. Women in Kabul are beaten for simply writing about love. Just dreaming of love warrants a real beatdown physically and mentally. And if they choose the way of suicide out does anyone even really care? This culture where women, the mother of this earth, are treated as nothing more than an object, quickly replaced. Stories that don't feature a second lover due to tainting, ruining a woman's nature are sinful yet the norm. What are needed. (Alice Waters see-through blouses), singing is associated with loose moral structure.
—
I was telling her sincerely from my heart how much I loved her because I could and I do and she was eyeing her lunch bag knowing its content and couldn't wait to rip into it at 10:45 a.m. I and my sentiment meant little in the midst of this feeding frenzy.
